


Bad News

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [8]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Wilford, I'm sorry. You're living.





	Bad News

“What do you mean, I’m _immortal_?”  


Dr. Iplier squinted down at his papers, rubbing his forehead. “Will,” he said, “because you’re a figment, and the channel’s icon, it’s very likely that you’ll never fade. Even after Mark--”

Wilford stood up, pacing the Doctor’s room, hands in his hair. Dr. Iplier stayed at his desk, watching him with a sad sort of smile. 

Wilford shook his head. “I can’t live _forever_ , Doc,” he started, desperation coloring his voice. “I just-- I can’t.”

Dr. Iplier folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. “More than likely, you will.”

Wilford dropped his hands, shoulders tensing, fingers curling into fists by his sides. “What am I supposed to do with that information, Doc? Why’d you tell me this?”

Sadness tugged at the corner of Dr. Iplier’s mouth, twisted. “Because it’s _you_ , Will. Would you rather I didn’t tell you?”

“Yes, actually.” There was a hard, bitter edge to Wilford’s voice. “I didn’t want to know that I‘m going to get to watch all of my frie-- all of _you_  die around me.”  


“Would you rather wait until it happened?” Dr. Iplier stood, eyes flashing in anger. “Until all of us are fading around you, and you’re the only one left?”

“Maybe I would.” There was a tremor in Wilford’s voice, and he dropped his gaze hurriedly. “Maybe I would,” he whispered.   


“Will,” Dr. Iplier said, soft, watching his shoulders shake, “I told you because I care, okay? And when we all fade, and you’re the only one left, I want you to be ready for that. I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”  


Wilford looked up, glaring. “You can’t stop me if you’re _dead_ , Doc.”

Silence.

Dr. Iplier gestured to the seat in front of him, and Wilford sighed, the fight draining out of him. Together, they sat, looking at each other over the desk in the low light. 

Dr. Iplier spoke first, low, determined. “Look. I can’t tell you how you should feel, Will, but I want you to know that we all have a long time before anything happens.”

“It’s fine,” Wilford interrupted, gripping the arms of his chair. Voice flat, face composed. Betrayed only by his whitening knuckles. “I’ll be fine.”  


A second’s hesitation. Dr. Iplier, against his better judgement, reached forward. “Wilford, if you ever need anything--”

“Yeah. Thanks, Doc.” Wilford pushed himself up, looking anywhere but the Doctor’s stricken face, and stormed out.   


Dr. Iplier sat back, huffing. Wilford was one of the tougher egos to talk to, even at the best of times. It was the worst of times, the age of wisdom, the age of foolishness, and Wilford was still downright impossible to communicate with. At least, the Doctor thought, starting to fix the papers scattered on his desk, at least now, Wilford knew. What he did now was up to him.

* * *

Wilford stalked into the studio, shoulders hunched, and Bim sprang to his feet. “Will! Do you want to look over this design before I run it?”

Wilford brushed past, silent. 

“Uh, Wilford?” Bim shuffled after him, cautious.

Wilford made it all the way to his dressing room before he noticed that Bim was following him. He whipped around with a dull spark, threatening. “What do you want, Trimmer?”

Bim shrunk back. “Are... are you okay?”

Somewhere in Wilford’s chest, there was a smothered twinge of regret. Bim was just trying to help, a small voice in his head cautioned. Doc was just trying to help. A louder voice, snapping, biting, scathing. told him to reject it. “I’m fine, Bim.”

Bim frowned as Wilford opened his door, about to disappear beyond reach. Bim reached out with a kind of desperation. “Do you-- do you need anything?”

“No, I’m _fine_.” The door slammed behind him, and Bim was left staring at the star on Wilford’s door.   


* * *

Finally, blissfully alone, Wilford took a deep breath and dropped into the chair in front of his dressing table. A look in the mirror, an instinctive hand through his hair. It was beginning to sink in, not with the anger that he’d had in the Doctor’s office, but with a creeping numbness, a heaviness in his limbs. 

Immortal? Alive, like this, forever?

Wilford looked himself in the eye again, bristling. This form, for the rest of his life. His eyes drifted to his mustache, perfectly pink, perfectly curled, almost glowing in the dim light. The channel’s icon, of course. All eyes on him. 

Something told him that he should be happy about this, about outliving the rest of them, even Dark. Something told him that Dark was the lucky one.

Al of the best stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Wilford, glowering at his own reflection, had written enough scripts in his life to know that. It had started with Dark, in a tiny apartment under Mark’s, plotting each day to cause more chaos, butting heads. It had a middle, he supposed, here in the office. Surrounded by other figments, fulfilling himself in work. 

But an end? He’d always expected there to be an end. Sometimes he was surprised that it hadn’t come already, him and Dark pulling the stunts they did. Other times he expected it to come in a blaze of glory and blood. Satisfaction, of some sort. 

Wilford buried his head in his hands, not even the impulse to work tiding him over. Was there a point, now? He had all the time in the world to work.

He had all the time in the world. 


End file.
